so she did not have to decide if it might be hope.
Chapter 7
october 4, 1991
The Jai l i n the house of corrections, most inmates had several names. If the Laws found out you had a record, there was less chance to walk a beef, or get bail. So when perps were arrested, they tended to forget what Momma had called them. Usually guys had been cooling for weeks before the Identification Division in McGrath Hall compared ten-card fingerprint records from booking with what was on file and figured out who was who.
Unfortunately for Collins Farwell, he had matched early. Although he'd checked in as Congo Fanon, by the time Muriel got Larry's call, the jail had Collins's given name. She was trying a bank robbery case, but she agreed to meet Larry at the jail after court, and when she arrived, he was waiting for her on one of the granite blocks that served as a bench in the lobby. His large blue eyes lingered as she approached.
"Lookin pretty spiff}'," Larry told her.
She was dressed for trial in a red suit, wearing a little more makeup than when she was in the office pushing files. Always a little too familiar, Larry reached up to touch one of her large loop earrings.
"African?"
"As a matter of fact."
"Nice," he said.
She asked what was up and Larry offered a more elaborate version than he had on the telephone of what Erno had told him yesterday. It was 5 p . M . and the prisoners were locked down for the count, which meant Larry and she would have to wait to interview Collins.
"Wanna take a look at him in the meantime?" Larry asked.
He badged them in and they climbed up on the catwalks, the grated piers outside the cages. Muriel lagged a bit. She had not had time to change shoes and it was easy to put a high heel through the grating. A stumble could lead to more than embarrassment. Civilians, male and female, learned to keep their distance from the cells. Men had been nearly garroted with their neckties, and women, naturally, endured worse. The Sheriffs deputies who served as guards maintained a live-and-let-live truce with the inmates, and were not always quick to intervene.
Walking along, it was the usual jailhouse scene-dark faces, bad smells, the insults and sexual taunts hurled toward their backs. In some cells, the men had strung clotheslines, further dividing the minimal space. Often photos were taped to the bars-family, or girlie shots sliced from magazines. During the lockdown, the men lounged, or slept, played radios, called out to one another, frequently in gang codes. An officer in drab, a big black man, had come to escort them when they moved through the last gate to the tiers and was plainly irritated to have been bothered. He rapped his stick twice on the bars to indicate they had reached Collinss cell, and sauntered off, running his baton against the bars just to let the boys know he was around.
"Which one of you is Collins?" Larry asked the two men in there. One was on the pot and the other was playing cards, through the bars, with the inmate next door.
"Yo, man, can't I get no privacy or nothin." Seated on the stainless steel fixture, Collins pointed at Muriel, but went about his business in defiance of the intrusion.
They strolled away briefly. When they returned, Collins was just pulling up the zipper on his orange jumpsuit.
"You narco or what?" Collins asked when Larry flipped his shield. Collins Farwell was medium color, with light eyes and a perfectly cropped sponge of African hair. As advertised, he was large and handsome. His eyes were nearly orange and as luminescent as a cats, and he was clearly aware of his good looks. Peering at Muriel, Collins adjusted the jumpsuit on his shoulders to make sure the fit was just so.
"Homicide," Larry said.
"I ain fuckin kill't nobody. That's not my act, man. Must be some other nigger you come for. Ain no killer. I'm a lover." Collins sang a few bars from Otis Redding to prove the point, providing considerable amusement in several of the cages stacked on
Chapter 7
october 4, 1991
The Jai l i n the house of corrections, most inmates had several names. If the Laws found out you had a record, there was less chance to walk a beef, or get bail. So when perps were arrested, they tended to forget what Momma had called them. Usually guys had been cooling for weeks before the Identification Division in McGrath Hall compared ten-card fingerprint records from booking with what was on file and figured out who was who.
Unfortunately for Collins Farwell, he had matched early. Although he'd checked in as Congo Fanon, by the time Muriel got Larry's call, the jail had Collins's given name. She was trying a bank robbery case, but she agreed to meet Larry at the jail after court, and when she arrived, he was waiting for her on one of the granite blocks that served as a bench in the lobby. His large blue eyes lingered as she approached.
"Lookin pretty spiff}'," Larry told her.
She was dressed for trial in a red suit, wearing a little more makeup than when she was in the office pushing files. Always a little too familiar, Larry reached up to touch one of her large loop earrings.
"African?"
"As a matter of fact."
"Nice," he said.
She asked what was up and Larry offered a more elaborate version than he had on the telephone of what Erno had told him yesterday. It was 5 p . M . and the prisoners were locked down for the count, which meant Larry and she would have to wait to interview Collins.
"Wanna take a look at him in the meantime?" Larry asked.
He badged them in and they climbed up on the catwalks, the grated piers outside the cages. Muriel lagged a bit. She had not had time to change shoes and it was easy to put a high heel through the grating. A stumble could lead to more than embarrassment. Civilians, male and female, learned to keep their distance from the cells. Men had been nearly garroted with their neckties, and women, naturally, endured worse. The Sheriffs deputies who served as guards maintained a live-and-let-live truce with the inmates, and were not always quick to intervene.
Walking along, it was the usual jailhouse scene-dark faces, bad smells, the insults and sexual taunts hurled toward their backs. In some cells, the men had strung clotheslines, further dividing the minimal space. Often photos were taped to the bars-family, or girlie shots sliced from magazines. During the lockdown, the men lounged, or slept, played radios, called out to one another, frequently in gang codes. An officer in drab, a big black man, had come to escort them when they moved through the last gate to the tiers and was plainly irritated to have been bothered. He rapped his stick twice on the bars to indicate they had reached Collinss cell, and sauntered off, running his baton against the bars just to let the boys know he was around.
"Which one of you is Collins?" Larry asked the two men in there. One was on the pot and the other was playing cards, through the bars, with the inmate next door.
"Yo, man, can't I get no privacy or nothin." Seated on the stainless steel fixture, Collins pointed at Muriel, but went about his business in defiance of the intrusion.
They strolled away briefly. When they returned, Collins was just pulling up the zipper on his orange jumpsuit.
"You narco or what?" Collins asked when Larry flipped his shield. Collins Farwell was medium color, with light eyes and a perfectly cropped sponge of African hair. As advertised, he was large and handsome. His eyes were nearly orange and as luminescent as a cats, and he was clearly aware of his good looks. Peering at Muriel, Collins adjusted the jumpsuit on his shoulders to make sure the fit was just so.
"Homicide," Larry said.
"I ain fuckin kill't nobody. That's not my act, man. Must be some other nigger you come for. Ain no killer. I'm a lover." Collins sang a few bars from Otis Redding to prove the point, providing considerable amusement in several of the cages stacked on
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